


Awkward Aftermath

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Should Never Have Existed [13]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apologies, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Guilt, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, M/M, Morning After, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 23:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15617076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: The Inquisitor over-indulges in Bull's dragon slaying celebration, and Cassandra has to haul him out of the tavern.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Inquisitor is not just your regular mage Trevelyan, but Gereon Alexius (a tamer version of him now that he has undergone some character development), who time-travelled to the Conclave and 'erased' the previous Herald Nadia (Cassandra's daughter by Regalyan, taken to a Chantry orphanage at birth due to mage parentage). I have used quotation marks because, as you can see, Nadia is alive and well (dating Bull and reunited with her mom), while Alexius is the one who accidentally got the Anchor during his time-hopping. To avoid the scandal of the Inquisition being led by the Venatori, Alexius and Nadia pose as uncle and niece in public, and he has gotten rather fond of her, if initially out of a lingering sense of guilt.

Whenever the Inquisition agents make their brief stops at Skyhold in between expeditions, Cassandra makes a point of jolting awake at the first break of dawn to make good time for her morning training.   
  
Today, too, hardly does the first silken ribbon of morning pink glide across the window of her quarters above the armoury (she chanced across a similar passage in a book somewhere, and found it rather... appealing), when she bolts upright on her modest, coarsely woven bedding. She does so by sheer instinct, with the mechanical precision of those wound-up curios that they saw on display at the Black Emporium, when they travelled there to stock up on rare components for the Blight remedy the Inquisitor is working on when he is not closing Rifts, together with Dorian and Hawke's wife Merrill (often assisted by the elusive Hero of Ferelden through dwarven speaking crystal: King Bhelen's reward for putting the earthquakes in the Deep Roads to an end).  
  
Once Cassandra tears herself off the bedroll, rough yet warmed by the heat of her own body into a welcoming coziness that she absolutely must resist, she gets to her feet, just as mechanically and just as abruptly, and proceeds to get herself ready, like she always does. A splash of water on her face to chase the last shreds of sleep away, a brief half-whispered prayer to brace for any hardships the day might bring, a few very simple motions (lean forward to touch one foot, then the other, bend backwards till her palms touch the floor, flex her shoulder blades) to warm up before the spar — and off to the weapon rack she goes to hoist up her gear and meet Blackwall in the courtyard.   
  
Just her habitual way of beginning the morning. Nothing more.   
  
As if... As if nothing is amiss.  
  
As if yesterday ended like any other day would, with her rigid (and yet reassuring) routine uninterrupted by any... disasters.   
  
As if Bull did not decide to celebrate the end of that recent dragon-slaying ordeal (Maker, she can still feel the crackling flames eat into the back of her head) with Qunari-sized swigs of tar-black liquid that he proudly called 'The Drink'.  
  
As if Cassandra did not spend an entire half hour pacing in front of Nadia, who was revealed to be her and Regalyan's daughter (alive, lost no more, despite all of the Chantry's efforts) not even a week ago. As if she did not utterly startle both the girl and herself by blurting out a succession of loud and anguished demands (or maybe…  maybe pleas) to drink in moderation, to respond to inappropriate behaviour with a punch only as a very last resort, and to heed the voice of reason, should Bull try to rope her into wrecking something or, say, waddling out into the mountain wilderness to search for some other creature to kill (Cassandra had to rephrase that part a few times because the words 'Bull' and 'tope' made Nadia deaf to everything except her own loud, snorting, spluttering laughter).  
  
As if Cassandra did not botch some half a dozen report drafts that night, her restless maternal instincts making her head about as functional as a room full of screeching, gasping, dramatically fainting Orlesian delegates after Sera throws in a jar of bees and shuts the door... Only to be interrupted, an unbearable eternity later, by the return of Nadia, flushed, hoarse with screams of laughter, visibly tipsy but still coherent, for the most part - and most importantly, not bearing the markings of any recent tavern brawls.  
  
'Mom!' she announced after almost kicking the armoury door off its hinges - and, silly as it is, when she said that, Cassandra sensed something most akin to a swarm of butterflies tickling her chest with soft, paper-thin wings.   
  
This was the first time that the girl, a stolen Circle orphan embittered beyond her years, who had all but convinced herself that the blissful safety of a family embrace was not meant for her, addressed Cassandra this way without any stuttering or lip-biting or long pauses to process what had just come out of her mouth. She just... Called out to Cassandra. With a natural, intuitive ease, unburdened by over-thinking and over-doubting.  
  
'Mom! You've got to see this!'  
  
Nadia was very insistent, little short of bouncing on the spot and making shoving motions in Cassandra's direction to hurry her up - and instead of cutting her short with a harsh, final announcement that the party was over and that she needed to sleep it off, because tomorrow was another day of standing guard over Thedas, of setting an example for the faithful... Cassandra followed. Out into the night, towards the blaring golden squares that were the tavern's windows, shutters thrown open to let out a whole demonic horde of guffaws and slurring outcries and snatches of rapid lute-thrumming.   
  
Cassandra could try lying to herself, try stomping down the embarrassment - but the truth (which Nadia hopefully does not remember come morning)... the truth is... She was out of the door before the girl even finished rolling the tricky word 'Inquisitor' round her tongue.  
  
And here is another truth: she still has trouble wrapping her head around how the Inquisitor accepted Bull's invitation to this... impromptu feast. Especially since, like Cassandra (who had refused to come, hating the thought that her daughter might see her as an overprotective fly on the wall, buzzing in disgust whenever she turned), he could have excused himself with paperwork. Or with being needed at the little laboratory in his quarters.  
  
Though, come to think of it, that latter ruse would probably not have held up. Because the new and improved version of the Inquisitor's healing potion has been working perfectly fine. It is not quite a cure, and won't be until the Hero finds what she seeks, but it is so effective in granting someone with the Blight an almost painless existence for long periods of time that there has been talk of announcing it to the public.   
  
Felix has not needed his father to come to his side for days - and last Cassandra saw him, no later than last evening, he was excitedly going over the blueprints for the new mage tower with the dwarven architects that Josephine had brought in from Celene's university. Looking heartier than he ever had, all smiles and vigorous gestures and bouts of arrow-swift Orlesian (that was why he had been called upon in the first place: he may have gotten an education in a slightly different field, but he knows more technical vocabulary in Orlesian than most people around Skyhold). With Bethany Hawke watching him with a tender smile all the while - which, as Cassandra found herself saying internally, her ears beginning to burn, was not merely from gratitude for providing her fellow mages with better quarters.   
  
But even without slinking off to write important letters or check on his son, the Inquisitor could have simply said no. Bull would have understood. For someone who, until the... certain events on the Storm Coast, was known as Liar, he seems oddly truthful; he respects honesty and directness almost as much as Cassandra herself.   
  
Really. Bull would have understood. The Inquisitor could have said no. But he did not. Either out of the reckless rush of having just survived the infernal wrath of a high dragon, or out of a desire to better understand the gruff oxman that is such good friends with Felix and Nadia and Dorian.   
  
Whatever the reason, Cassandra was suddenly made aware that she had not one but two party-goers to fret over. And rightly so, as it turned out.


	2. Chapter 2

When Nadia ushered her into the Herald's Rest, the first thing that Cassandra saw was a swaying figure, standing in the middle of the broadest table, amid rubble-like heaps of trays and plates and mugs that had been brusquely swept aside to make room. Facing Bull, who had leaned a little bit to the side, supporting his chin in rapt attention like most of the other people in the tavern.   
  
Which meant that his massive back and horned head did not obscure the... the figure. The Inquisitor.  
  
He was barely balancing on his rickety excuse for a podium, with his legs spread out wide like those of a sailor during a violent storm. His hands were resting on his waist - on his _bare_ waist, for he had stripped off the upper layers of his embroidered black robes (tailored in the Tevinter style after much grousing on the Inquisitor's part, and therefore needlessly complicated), which now hung between his legs like the plumage of some thoroughbred rooster.  
  
The shock of being exposed to the sight of the Inquisitor's naked torso (in particular the trail of curling, greying hair that began at the top of his stomach and went on... downwards) threw Cassandra  into such a throbbing, swirling haze that she might as well have gotten drunk herself. It was not until a few seconds later that it dawned on her that Nadia was giggling into her ear, her breath scorching her cheek (this had to be Nadia's breath, right? Right?) and saying something.  
  
'Oh good, they are still at it. We started talking about scars, and how amazing they are, you see, and Milord Uncle here decided to prove to Bull that his scars were no worse than his... Bull's that is. The second his meant Bull's. That came out con... confusing'.  
  
'No, no, I understand,' Cassandra responded numbly, her mind preoccupied with something entirely different than what her lips were shaping out.  
  
The Inquisitor was, indeed, pointing to the various gnarly slashes that snaked across his body, ranging in colour from bruised, blood-soaked purple to pale yellowish white. It usually took him more than one attempt to steady his hand over a certain particular scar; and once he did, he explained where that scar had come from, in a voice that sounded as if he had stuffed his mouth with cotton. Which contrasted rather piteously with the ominous 'dun-dun-dunnn' that Maryden the bard played on her lute before each of his comments.  
  
'Magic exploshn... Not the A... Ash Tepl one... Long before... Back home... Oh, but my home is a secret... Dirty, dirty little secret of the... Inqui... shon... So shhhh... Moving on... This one if from... Prai... Pride demon.. Stupid cackling bassard... Tried to kill... Cass... Cassdra...'  
  
'Andraste's knickers, he's gotten even drunker while I was gone!' Nadia chortled, wrapping her arm casually around Cassandra's shoulders. 'You wanna grab a couple of shots and snacks while we watch?'  
  
Another voice joined in her laughter - apparently, Dorian had slipped through the throng of the Inquisitor's grinning audience to greet them.  
  
By the slightly wandering look in his eyes, it was evident that he had also had a bit to drink - but not nearly to the same devastating extent as his former mentor. Even his moustache was still perfectly waxed.  
  
'Excellent idea, my friend! The night promises to be... most illuminating. I must admit, I had not expected such a spectacle... I mean, back in the day, a modest helping of brandy would be enough to start him talking about burning down the Magisterium, but without any skin-flourishing'.   
  
'Must be "the Drink," Nadia reasoned, clumsily miming quotation marks and almost stumbling in the process. 'He and Bull were the only ones who had any. The best saved for the boss, Bull said'.  
  
'I fail to see how this is the best,' Cassandra said dryly, removing Nadia's arm from her shoulders and giving her a very stern look. Albeit not 'the Drink', whatever the girl had treated herself to was steadily going to her head. A thought even occurred to Cassandra that, in the excitement of gawking at the Inquisitor, Nadia might have grabbed a tankard off a nearby table and finished it after its dozing owner while 'mom' was not looking. Maker, she is still so awful at watching over her child, isn't she? And at watching over the Inquisitor as well.  
  
'What if he falls off the table and gets injured? What if he accidentally conjures something that will flare out of control? What if that... substance gives him alcohol poisoning? It was clearly meant for a Qunari's constitution!'  
  
'Qunari's what?' asked Nadia, who was now trying to cling to Dorian, her smile more and more stupid by the second. 'What... titution? I think I heard a different word...'  
  
'And I think you are drunk, young lady,' Cassandra finally remembered that she had intended to be strict with the child. 'Find an escort and head to sleep. And no, Dorian is under the influence himself, so he does not count'.  
  
'I can assist you with that, Lady Seeker,' a heavily accented voice of an Antivan purred from the tavern's threshold, as a short, lithe elven silhouette emerged into the light with a flourishing bow. 'Lady Nightingale had a task for me that required my utmost concentration, so I have not yet imbibed. In fact, I have just finished tucking in young Sera, who, while hilarious company, does not hold her liquor very well. I even resorted to sombre sacrifice if it meant getting her to sleep'.  
  
With that, the Antivan elf - Zevran, one of Leliana's latest recruits, who had gotten involved with the Inquisition after saving the Inquisitor, Nadia, and Dorian from a Crow ambush - swept aside a strand of long, sun-bleached hair and revealed that one of his (rather elegant and... intriguing, Cassandra concedes) facial tattoos had been turned into a drawing of a male... unmentionable organ, with a few crude charcoal lines.  
  
Cassandra milled on the spot for a brief while,  lips pursed. While, so far, unflinchingly loyal to the cause, and doubtlessly very capable (if vary ever serious), Zevran is still a former Antivan Crow himself. Hardly the man a mother would entrust her vulnerable daughter to in the middle of the night. But on the other hand, according to Leliana, who adventured with Zevran during the Blight, he had been sold to the assassins at the age of seven, and after the Hero of Ferelden helped him break free of their yoke, dedicated his whole life to erasing their vile order off the face of Thedas. And, at the moment, he was refreshingly sober.  
  
So in the end, Cassandra did agree to pass Nadia into Zevran's hands, but not without a glare of warning. Had she brought her sword with her, this would have made the glare far more effective - but even without any meaningful sheath-stroking, the former Crow quickly caught on to what Cassandra had left unsaid.  
  
'Fear not, my lady, I shall not give you any reason to deprive me of any vital body parts,' he promised, while thrusting his arm under Nadia's and steering her towards the door. 'I have... incentive to survive the night'.  
  
He accompanied those last words with a glance back over his charge's shoulder and a sly wink at Dorian.  
  
'One helping was not enough, I see,' Dorian murmured in reply, absently twisting the tip of his moustache.  
  
'I am a hungry man, milord Pavus,' Zevran drawled softly. 'But I am also a man of honour, so please make sure that you do not reach the condition of your esteemed friend the Inquisitor. Otherwise I will have to limit myself to tucking you into bed, like I intend to do with dear Nadia... And like the Seeker intends to do with him'.  
  
Of course, now that she thinks back on the conversation, which echoes through her mind as she adjusts the fit of her cuirass (as if nothing happened last night, as if nothing is amiss), Cassandra can think of a dozen different indignant retorts to Zevran's teasing remark. But at that moment, all that she managed to squeeze out of herself before she pointed the Antivan towards the door and marched off to get the Inquisitor off the table, was a single disgusted noise.


End file.
